Closet
by damnnn lolita
Summary: [Yaoi SexZ] Zell's caffeine-riddled and spastic thoughts on his secret life behind the closet door. With Seifer. (Warning: Language and Man-Loving-Man Action)


[note]: I don't own any of the Final Fantasy 8 boys and I'm stating that fact at the get-go, so you can't sue me. 

[warning]: Yaoi; don't read it if you don't like that kind of stuff. 

"closet"

by lolita

That bastard has a way with his hands. 

And fingers. 

And lips. 

And tongue. 

And other delicious things.

Too bad he's such a bastard.

He knows all the right words to say at the right moments to get me hard as the deep-dark frozen heart of a glacier and hot enough to melt it all into a crashing, rushing, boiling tidal wave in a moment. 

Hyne, what I wouldn't give to flood that boy right now.

Of course, I have to catch him first.

Everyone thinks I'm the hyper-active one, never standing still or listening to a word anyone says to my sugar-high-buzzing brain. That's true, but he's just as untamed and uncontrollable. He goes (and comes) where he wants, when he wants, and can shut you out without a second thought. 

I like to think he's ADHD but he's still in the closet so he has to hide it with valium and liquor. 

In the closet. 

With me. 

Fucking like little boys should in the darkest recesses of their souls, no one around to pull the chain and reveal our heinous crimes to the world. And I think I just stumbled over the rack of fabulous shoes and tight little leather clubbing numbers.

Right.

I don't think I could be "sassy" if I tried.

Labels and lies, another reason to stay in the dark and fuck, suck, a good screw or two loose, all with no regrets. How can I regret screwing the bogyman? Bogymen don't exist.

Hyne, _he _certainly does exist, though. How can you deny someone's existence when his cock buries itself right up to your throat from behind. It's gigantic, a living, separate being in his pants. I bet if he had enough imagination he'd name the fucking thing. 

I think he's content with me calling it Hyne and begging it for release with raunchy, vile, sweaty, husky, desperate, violent prayers. He seems to think his cock is the reincarnation of some long-lost sex deity but I doubt it. Granted, it's wonderful and thick and hot and slick, but if it weren't for the luscious, pompous ass-hole stuck to it, it'd just be another hunk of nerves and flesh and blood. 

Thank Hyne that bastard's attached at the hips to that thing.

Filled to the brim, afraid I'll cough cum when he'll finally let loose inside me, I scream and pant and moan like the good little whore I know I am. 

Moremoremoremorennnsogoodohhyneseiferfuckmecomeoncumonmeinmeohshit…fuck!

My fists find my teeth, his hair, my thighs, his neck. I love burying my nails into his flesh, into his neck. I dig and kneed that golden skin like a kitten with a toy it wants so desperately to destroy but it can't. It knows it'll want to play later. I retract my claws. Replace them with teeth. I think I draw blood.

Tasty.

Like a vampire or a wolf or a beast, something wild and uncontained. The copper taste sends me over the top as it trickles down my throat. Huge, strong hands crush and dig into my hips in response. He's trying to show he's still in control. That he can hurt me too. 

He doesn't know that the hurt makes it all five-by-five-spectacular-fucking-of-a-lifetime-perfect. More than perfect. It's enlightenment when I cum, screaming obscenities as I blindly bite down on whatever my sharp little canines can find within reach. He's not long and oh, Hyne, delicious.

Delicious.

I don't care that we have to be careful, keep four eyes peeled to make sure no one sees us leaving the closet together. We'd never be together, doing those things. It's so unnatural. Real men fuck women. Or little girls. Real men don't fuck other real men who could tear the entire world of real men in two without a thought or a bead of sweat.

As I stumble out, in a daze, never given the chance to find out the best part of sex can be the time after the sex is done and washed out of the sheets, I fail to notice the boa that got stuck to my heel, trailing behind me like naughty toilet paper from a public restroom floor. Incriminating evidence. That bastard deftly picks it up and shoves it back in before anyone could see. Covering his ass, which should be as sore as mine but he got out of it with a little touch, a little feel, all in the right places.

Did I mention he had a way with his hands?

The bastard.

.end.


End file.
